Recognition
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: There were voices, muffled and distant. [Trek!lock AU]


_**First posted on my Tumblr.**_

* * *

There were voices, muffled and distant. Panicked.

_It's okay_, she thought to herself. _Everything will be fine. It'll be okay. We're just going to sleep for a little while. Just a little while…_

Cold air whipped around her face—too cold. Far, far too cold. The voices grew louder, less muffled now. One of them was coarse, rough. Male.

"What happened? Dammit Marcus, tell me what happened!"

_Just a little while…_

"I don't know—I don't know!" The voice was feminine, breathless and scared.

_Just a little while…_

The warmth of life invaded the coolness that surrounded her. Her eyelids fluttered open. Green irises stared back at her, wide in their confusion. Beyond that, black hair. A square jaw.

She was trapped. Walls encased around her, pressing heavy against her chest. Strangled gasps escaped her; heaving, heavy breaths pulled at her lungs, wrapping around her chest like ropes.

"Pull the capsule open," a blonde-haired woman shouted. "Quickly! She's dying!"

The cool wind wrapped itself around her whole body now as she lay where she was, breaths slowing as her biology made sense of her environment. The green-eyed man was staring at her again, a cautious hand hovering over her shoulder.

"You okay? You can breathe?"

Her breaths, though regular, were still heavy as she slowly nodded. Her gaze flicked every which way as she took in where she was. Mountains. Ice. Wind.

Cold.

Unfamiliar.

One word was formed from her lips.

"Imogen."

* * *

She wasn't supposed to be this. She just wasn't. This had never been part of the plan. Curling her legs up to her chest, she stared, unblinking, at the test in front of her. The thin blue lines across it did not disappear—however much she willed them to.

This couldn't happen. She just couldn't be pregnant.

It was strange. She always assumed learning you were pregnant would be a good thing. She hadn't ever thought that it could perhaps make you so fearful, so terrified, that you would end up sitting in an empty bathroom with shoulders shaking from the flood of tears.

And that was the way in which he found her. And what did he do? What did that insufferable, irritatingly perfect man do? He smiled. Wiped away her tears. Promised they'd do it together; whether they did it as friends or as lovers was irrelevant. That was what he promised.

For a while, she believed him.

That belief was already ebbing away by the time a sharp-suited man came into 221b Baker Street and proclaimed the need to talk to one Sherlock Holmes.

Months passed after that first meeting. As every week ticked slowly by, her belly grew bigger and he became more and more distant. By the time she was a little over five months, he had become little more than an acquaintance, and her? Well, she was an inconvenience. A mistake.

John tried his damnedest to comfort her. Tried to convince her that it was just one of Sherlock's moods—one that he'd soon make his way out of. But Molly knew better. No-one could stay in the same mood for five months straight. And after all, she had been waiting long enough. She couldn't be the desperate single mother with a heart aching for a man who could never love her. That would be selfish—she had to be strong. If not for her, then for the baby that grew inside her.

It was evening when he came back from yet another meeting. He called her name, but she didn't reply. She merely continued what she had been doing for the better part of the day: packing. Calling her name again, impatiently this time, she heard him storm towards the bedroom. She didn't look up when he stepped inside. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Packing," was her sharp, short reply as she convinced herself to look at him. The sadness in his eyes pricked at her heart, but her mind was made. She shook her head. She wouldn't stay. He swooped to her side, taking a tight hold of her hand.

"Molly, please. Don't."

"Let go of me." Her voice was colder than she imagined it would be.

"Molly," he repeated. His lips were soft as he pressed them against her palm, the kiss urgent and pleading.

"I'm sorry," she said, slowly pulling her hand from his grip. "I can't hope anymore, Sherlock. I just can't."

He didn't say anything to that. Just looked. Watched. Watched as she spurted fresh tears, zipped up her suitcase and walked out of 221b.

Outside, she stepped into the waiting black saloon car to find a passport and one-way ticket to America lying on the seat. A thin-lipped smile was aimed in her direction.

"You do know that I provide this help on the condition that you don't contact my brother."

She nodded. No contact. At least that would make things a little easier. Looking up, she tried—what she hoped was—a polite smile. "Thank you, Mycroft."

"You're welcome."

The following months were a meaningless blur. The accommodation Mycroft had provided her with was beyond wonderful: fully furnished, stocked with the latest child-rearing equipment, close to her new job and a few prospective schools, it was everything a first-time single mother would need and want.

She attended all the pre-natal classes she needed to, the lie about her child's parentage tripping off her tongue like too sweet honey. "A one night stand," she claimed, memories of so many more nights passed in his bed. "A happy accident," she said with a laugh, remembering the night she'd left. Remembering his face, usually so unreadable in better times but like an open book when she had finally told him the truth.

The baby was premature, 3 weeks before the due date. She'd woken at midnight, disturbed by a particularly bad dream. That was when she noticed the wetness of her bed-sheets.

There was no time wasted. She was rushed to the nearest neonatal unit, where the birth was quick and easy. It was with wide smiles from the nurses and doctors that she was presented with her child: a tiny but beautiful baby girl.

Those smiles slipped as her heart monitor slowed. A hush grew over them. One of the nurses tried to take her baby from her. She tried to fight, but she was too weak. A name burst from her mouth as her arms fell away from the blankets that encased her baby.

"Imogen," she said quietly. "Her name's Imogen…"

The nurse holding her baby smiled. "It's okay. We'll look after her. You just to need get some rest, okay? Just for a little while."

Molly nodded as her eyes slipped close. Everything would be okay. All she had to do was sleep. Once she woke up, she would be fine. Her baby, her Imogen, would be with her. She just had to wait. It would be no time at all.

_Just a little while…_

* * *

"Who's Imogen?" a sandy blonde-haired man whispered, leaning close to the green-eyed man.

"No idea."

She was in another hospital; a different one, with smoother lines, glass structures and people dressed entirely in white. Machines beeped oddly behind her as one of the people clad in white scanned her with a device she didn't recognize.

They said they were examining her. She couldn't help but feel like they were watching her.

A hand rested on her shoulder. Her head snapped up to find that she was staring at a woman; the woman was dressed in red and had long black hair that was scraped back into a ponytail.

"Hey. My name's Lieutenant Uhura," she said gently. "What's yours?"

"Molly Hooper," she said shakily, gripping tightly to the edges of the bed she sat on. "I'm a doctor—a pathologist. I work… I don't know. Where am I?"

Lieutenant Uhura's face fell into a puzzled frown. "The USS Enterprise. I'm sorry, but this… this is 2259."

* * *

The doctor scanned his chart and yawned quietly, scribbling his signature. God, but he'd be glad when he got off shift tonight.

"How's the patient?" a cool, silky voice asked, to which the doctor jumped about a foot in the air. On seeing the man standing in the doorway, he smiled, bowing his head.

"Mr Holmes. This is a surprise."

"I know. Answer the question."

"Oh. Well, she's stable," he started, stepping away as the man moved towards the bed. "It's a miracle we saved her really. The bleeding was quite heavy."

"Yes… and how terrible it would have been for you if you hadn't saved her," he said coolly, smiling thinly. The doctor nodded.

"She's going to need be under observation for the next few days—"

"I think not," the man said, tapping out a text.

The doctor frowned, wisely deciding to ignore the man's wilful ignorance of hospital etiquette. "Sorry?"

"I have perfectly good facilities for aftercare at my own home—excellent in fact," the man said, pocketing his phone. "She will be well cared for."

"But—what about her child?"

"The child will be cared for as well."

The doctor nodded. It would be better to blindly obey than ask questions. He'd learnt that pretty quickly in his dealings with the elder Holmes brother. "I'll organize the paperwork," he muttered.

"No need," Mycroft said simply, looking at him with that same icy-cold stare that could intimidate even the toughest of men. "That's been taken care of. You can head to your mistress and beach house in Bora Bora. I'm sure she's missing you."

The doctor practically sprinted from the room. Mycroft shook his head and settled into the armchair beside the bed, his gaze focused on the patient in front of him. Even without the breathing apparatus, she would still look tiny; lost beneath the swathes of cheap blankets and hospital equipment.

Guilt pricked at him. In a way, this had been his doing, as despite his demand to her for zero contact, his brother had made him promise to protect her, and unable to say no, he had indeed tried his best with all of the facilities available to him. Was it ironic then that it wasn't a superficial force such as an enemy that had hurt her but the one thing he couldn't control—her biology? Ironic, perhaps not. A cruel trick of fate? That was more likely.

Yet Mycroft Holmes was not one to renege on a promise—especially not one made to his brother, even though that same brother was already gone, enhanced by science and hidden away from society. John Watson had followed on soon after, along with his wife, Mary. Lestrade had followed them, of course, always the faithful lap dog. And soon, it would be his turn; his time to be frozen and hidden away inside a cold, metal tube until someone dusted off their casings and deigned them useful.

A rapid knock on the door caused him to turn. Anthea was stood there, clad in a trouser suit with a large shawl wrapped around her shoulders and as ever, her phone in her hand.

"Everything's ready, Mr Holmes."

He nodded, getting to his feet and moving towards the door. He stopped when he felt Anthea's hand on his arm.

"You don't need to feel guilty you know."

Another, smaller, smile appeared on his lips. "Actually, I believe I do."

* * *

"No… I'm Molly Hooper—I work in New York—it's 2013. How can it be 2259?"

"You were put in cryo-sleep."

Molly shook her head. "No I wasn't. I was—I was giving birth. I had my baby—my Imogen. Where is she?"

Lieutenant Uhura's frown deepened and her hand dropped from Molly's shoulder. "Wait. Did you say… baby? Is Imogen a _child_?"

"She's mine!" Molly said. "Where is she? Please! If you have her, please…"

"I'm sorry—but we never found an Imogen. Definitely not on board this ship."

Molly's face dropped, and fresh tears filled her eyes. "No. She's my baby—she can't be lost. She just can't! Please—just give her back to me, please! I haven't done anything, I promise. She's my baby!" Her words were overwhelmed by a wave of tears. Leaving her to the doctors, Lieutenant Uhura headed back to where the two men stood.

"Captain," she said, "we have a problem."

* * *

Quickly, Uhura descended the steps to the hold. Jogging on behind her were Kirk and Bones.

"So wait—are you saying that there's a _kid_ in one of those torpedoes?"

"Jesus," Bones muttered. "What the hell has this Khan guy got planned?"

Uhura shrugged as she tapped at the keypad to the hold. "Honestly, I don't know. But I've got a feeling that this _wasn't_ a part of his plan."

The door to the hold slid open with ease and the three of them stepped forward, all of them shaving off into different directions. Whilst Bones moved to the left, Kirk moved to the right and Uhura jogged down the centre aisle, glancing at each torpedo as she moved.

A cry of "Hey! Over here!" came from the far right side of the hold. Immediately, both Uhura and Bones scrambled towards where Kirk was stood by a regular-sized torpedo. Inside however, there was the tiny face of a newborn. Without hesitation, Uhura ran towards the intercom.

"Get Marcus down here, now," she ordered. There was silence between the three as she moved back to the torpedo and stared down at the sleeping infant. The silence was broken when the door to the hold slid open and Carol Marcus entered. "You wanted me?" she said, but on seeing the infant, she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

"Yeah," Kirk said with a light, awkward laugh. "We need you to disarm the torpedo and retrieve the kid. Can you do that?"

"It'll be difficult—"

"We know," Uhura said. "But we've got to get that child out of there."

Carol nodded and stepped past both Uhura and Kirk, diligently getting to work.

After a moment, Uhura sighed. "I've seen that look. What is it?"

"Just a thought, but you don't think this… Molly chick could've been close to Khan, do you?" When Uhura frowned, he hurriedly continued. "I mean, how else do you explain having a newborn kid in one of the torpedoes?"

Bones shrugged, moving to Kirk's other side. "She could've done it herself. You know—smuggled it aboard."

"Nice suggestion, but she's a half-blabbering mess—how could she—OW!" he yelped, clutching at his ear as he glared at Uhura. "What was that for?"

"She's just woken up from a 246 year long cryo-sleep! Forgive her for being a little behind!"

"Okay, okay—it was just a joke."

"It wasn't funny."

In an attempt to defuse the tension, Bones turned towards Carol, who was still working on the torpedo. "Any chance you can hurry it along? Uhura and Kirk are getting antsy."

"Sure, I can hurry it along!" Carol said faux-brightly. "If you want me to blow up the hold, that is."

Bones blinked. "Take as much time as you want."

The next ten minutes crawled by until finally, there was a hiss of air as the torpedo was opened. Gently as she could, Carol reached inside and brought out the child, rocking her from side to side.

"Well," Bones said after a moment. "246 year old newborn. You sure as hell don't see one of those every day."

"Yeah well," Uhura said, turning on her heels and heading towards the door. "We should get back to the medical bay as soon as possible. There's a mother missing her kid."

* * *

She just wanted her baby. That was all. And she had her baby now. Everything was okay. She could leave and enjoy what time she had left of her life with her daughter.

So why did they keep on asking her questions? They talked of war, of ships, attacks on London, false identities, a man named Marcus… even a man named Khan.

"I told you," she said, holding Imogen close to her. "I don't know anything."

"C'mon, you've gotta know _something_!" the green-eyed man—who had introduced himself as Leonard McCoy—yelled, but she shook her head, tears threatening to spill. Imogen began to cry, disturbed by the noise around her and Molly gently cradled her, rocking her as she dropped a kiss onto her forehead and stroked her cheek to quieten her.

The sandy-haired man she now knew to be the captain of the ship sighed and stepped forward. "Look. Down in the hold, we have 70 torpedoes that are exactly the same design as the ones you and your kid woke up in. Sorry, but you're the best lead we've got."

"Lead? I'm sorry, but I don't recognize anything you're telling me. I don't know a Khan, or a… Colonel Marcus? All I remember is giving birth and waking up in the capsule, or torpedo, or whatever it is."

Uhura rubbed delicately at her forehead, looking at her colleagues. "Maybe she knows him under his other name?" She looked to Molly. "Does the name John Harrison mean anything to you?"

Molly shook her head, gazing down at her daughter, who was now happily asleep, snuggled against her chest.

"Please leave me alone," she said quietly before looking up at the three. "I'll leave—I won't say anything. I promise. Please… just let me go."

The captain shook his head, and it appeared as if he were about to speak some more, but they were interrupted by the unannounced arrival of another colleague, this one fresh-faced and with a mass of curly hair.

_Curls_. She remembered those. She remembered tracing her fingers through darker, looser curls; remembered smiling as morning light flooded through the windows of her bedroom; remembered the way that same sunlight would poured over his body; remembered the heavy, lethargic grunt he would make as he fought off the urge to wake…

"Keptin!" the fresh-faced crewman called, pulling her from her thoughts. "Keptin!"

The captain raised his eyebrows as he turned to look at the crewman. "Yes, Chekov?"

Chekov swallowed slightly. "Khan has made contact sir. He said he wishes to negotiate."

"Negotiate huh? Okay. Miss Hooper, you're coming with us."

"Captain—"

"Uhura, I know—it's highly dangerous, and kind of a lot sneaky, but it's the only chance we have. It's either this, or getting obliterated. And I know which I'd rather be."

The captain departed from the room, followed quickly on by Chekov. For a moment, Molly watched as Uhura and McCoy waited for her to move. Her prime instinct was to run—but where? She didn't know the ship, she didn't know… anything. The only thing she did know was that above everything, she would keep her child, her Imogen, safe.

If that meant going with them, then so be it.

* * *

They turned down corridor after corridor, lights flashing past them in their hurry to get to the bridge. On their way, they were met by a dark-haired man with pointed ears. He saw Molly and frowned, leaning towards the Captain.

"Captain, whilst I was aware you had awakened one of the members of Khan's crew, I—"

"Actually Spock, we kind of don't who or what she is," the Captain said quickly. "I'm kind of making this up as I go along."

"Is that necessarily wise, considering our situation?"

"Not at all, Spock. Not at all—but this plan does have one thing the others didn't," the captain said as they turned down yet another corridor and headed into a lift.

"And what is that?" Spock asked, pressing a button and glancing at Molly again. The captain grinned.

"The element of surprise."

There was a pause as the whole group considered the weight of this statement.

Finally, Spock was the one to speak. "Captain, would it be of benefit to point out the statistical unlikeliness of this plan working?"

"No, Spock, it would not."

The lift doors slid open and Molly was met with a series of faces, all different but all wearing the same look of anxiety. A short, Asian man was sat in the centre of the circular room, an expression akin to thunder on his face. A large window made up much of the front of the room. Beyond it was outer space. Molly fought not to have her legs collapse from underneath her. She had to keep Imogen safe. She had to remain calm.

"I thought you said you had communication with Khan," the captain said, stepping forward. The short man stepped off the chair and turned to face his captain, bowing his head.

"I apologize sir. He was in communication with us when Chekov came to you, but the connection was lost just a few moments ago."

"Sulu, this is Khan," the captain said, walking forward and settling into the chair. "He didn't lose the connection; he severed it."

Imogen gave out another little cry, as if she could sense what was going on. Molly smiled down at her, stroking at her soft strands of hair and nuzzling her nose against her cheek. "It's okay," she murmured. "Mummy's here. She'll—"

"Well done, Mr Kirk. Well done indeed."

All the air seemed to disappear from Molly's lungs. That voice. She knew it. She knew it so well—_too_ well. Every rise and fall, every inclination. It echoed inside her whole body, engulfing her memory with every word he had ever spoken to her.

"So, Khan… got anything you'd like to say?"

"Oh, I have many things to say, Mr Kirk. But I was brought up well—it's usually seen as fair to give the losing side the chance to talk first."

She heard Kirk chuckle and get to his feet. "That's nice of you. But, uh, whilst you were… offline, we made a couple of discoveries."

"Captain," Spock said cautiously, but he was ignored. Kirk bounded up towards Molly and took her by the arm, guiding her closer to the screen.

She didn't dare look. She didn't dare see the man he had become.

There was a dark, throaty laugh from the man on the screen. Clearly, he didn't believe a word Kirk was saying.

"Oh, Captain… you really are going to have to try better than that. This is child's play. Shall we make it a little more interesting?"

"Sherlock."

She'd said the word without thinking. A silent hush gathered over the bridge. Slowly, and with a heavy heart, she raised her head to look at the man on the screen.

It was like a heavy punch to the gut, to see that he was exactly as she remembered him. The same coldness in his eyes; the same smooth jawline she had caressed so frequently with either affection or lust; even the same inky black hair.

His expression hardened, and he rose to his feet, holding his hands behind his back.

"Well played, Mr Kirk," was all he said, his fierce gaze locked onto Molly—and their child.

"Khan, these are the terms: give up your cause and we'll let Miss Hooper and the child go, as well as the other torpedoes. However, if you continue to resist, she, the child and the torpedoes will remain here on the Enterprise as prisoners of Starfleet."

Slowly, Khan—Sherlock—began to pace, thinking over the terms Kirk had provided. Imogen gurgled against Molly's chest. Sherlock ground to a halt, again looking straight at her.

"What's her name?" His tone was softer than she expected, and she smiled.

"Imogen."

He didn't say it, but they both understood the significance. Imogen had been the name of Molly's mother, who had died two months into Molly's pregnancy. The death of her mother had been a hard one to take. She went through the motions, organizing the funeral with her sister and accepting people's condolences as they came. It was the night after the funeral, when she was getting ready for bed and taking off her shoes that it had happened. She had just broken down, in tears, and was unable to stop. Much like the night when she had discovered her pregnancy, Sherlock found her. He'd said nothing. What he'd done instead was something she hadn't known she'd needed until he'd done it. He'd hugged her. Just the simple act of feeling his arms around her and his fingers stroking through her hair was enough to give her comfort.

On hearing the name, his lips twitched with a knowing smile and he nodded once, sitting back in the captain's chair. For a long while, nothing was said. Molly stepped forward. It was ridiculous, what she was about to say; what she was about to do. But if it kept her daughter safe and saved the lives of the crewmen aboard this ship, it was most definitely the right thing to do.

"Sherlock. I'll go with you."

He arched an eyebrow. "Really? That's rather selfless of you. And all for a crew who are willing to keep you prisoner?"

She shook her head. "No. For our daughter."

At this, his eyes softened and he leaned forward. "Why? You're afraid of me—I can see it in your eyes. Why would you want to go with a man who terrifies you?"

"Because I wish to save my family—and she is my family."

There was a long silence as he considered her words. The atmosphere on the bridge was still as every crewman watched the situation unfolding before them.

Soft white strands of light began to surround Molly. She clutched Imogen tighter to her, staring wide-eyed at Sherlock, the man she had loved for so long.

That was the last thing she saw before everything dissolved to white.

* * *

She awoke in a bed she didn't recognise. The room was large. Imogen was still in her arms, sleeping as peacefully as she ever had. The sound of running water was what she first heard. Being careful not to wake her daughter, she sat up, feeling uncomfortable in the black jumper and denim jeans she had been clad in ever since her awakening in the capsule. Glancing down, she found that a charcoal grey polo neck sweatshirt and black trousers were folded beside the bed on the floor. Carefully, she picked them up and got changed, getting used to the unfamiliar material. She realised that the sound of running water had stopped, and looked up, waiting for whoever was going to join her to appear.

It was Sherlock who was the one to appear, dressed in clothes similar to hers with slightly damp hair. It struck her that she was probably wearing a uniform—a badge of her willingness to sacrifice herself.

"Sleep well?" he asked. It was almost amusing how tender he sounded now, compared to when she had first seen.

"I believe so," she said, her eyes tracing over him as he carefully sat down on the bed beside her and took her hand.

"No doubt they told you of what I did."

She nodded, stroking at his palm with her thumb. 246 years and his hand was still the only one that fit hers completely.

"I…" he started, but he paused, trying to find the right words. "What I did was out of necessity."

"So you don't deny it?"

"No. For me to do so would be a dishonor to the memory of the ones I brought to harm."

"Yes, it would," she whispered, glancing towards Imogen. She swallowed slightly. She didn't want to ask the question, but she had to know. "Would you do it again?"

"As I said, what I did was—"

She closed her eyes, drawing her hand away. "Answer the question, Sherlock."

The silence between them was like some kind of echo, deep inside that only increased with every moment that slipped by. He touched at her jaw and his other hand rested at the small of her back, his movements much kinder than she expected. She let herself look at him. It made her heart swell slightly to see just how genuine his expression was—how _open_ it was.

"I believed my friends and family to be dead—John, Lestrade, Mycroft, you—and I thought I had nothing left to lose. But Molly, you've brought me back something I'd lost long ago: _hope_. Believe me when I say that I will always regret what I did. I regret agreeing to join Starfleet; I regret letting cryogenics consume my life; most of all, I regret losing you. I regret the fact that I didn't realise how much I loved you until I watched you walk out of Baker Street."

"Yes, well. Walking out wasn't the easiest decision in my life. Tell the truth, it was the hardest thing I've ever done. But you must promise me Sherlock. Please. Don't ever become lonely."

He smiled, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyelids fluttering shut.

"Oh, Molly," he breathed, "my Molly."

She couldn't help but smile as she heard those words. It would be a long, painful road to go down, this new path she—the two of them—had found, but the reward at the end would be all the sweeter.


End file.
